


Goodbye, Apathy

by prettygaytrash



Category: Avengers (Comics), Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Espionage, Gen, Mystery, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygaytrash/pseuds/prettygaytrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen year old Clint "Hawkeye" Barton only took the mission to clear his name, but it became an adventure that turned the young agent's world upside-down. Set 13 years before the Avengers, this is Hawkeye's first encounter with the infamous Black Widow. So, what exactly happened in Budapest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** Chapter 1 **

**S.H.I.E.L.D. Base, Denver, Colorado**

**January 17** **th** **, 1999, 11:33am**

The thirst is what awoke him. It wasn't an agreeable thirst; not the kind that followed a satisfying workout or a healthy round in the boxing ring, but the grinding, torturous thirst that comes after being far too drunk for one's own good. It was the body's desperate attempt to quench the dehydration, to staunch the body's involuntary lust for liquid displaced by alcohol. He lay in bed, awakened by this primal desire, somewhere between the reality of waking and the safe, painless realm of sleep. His short brown hair was slick with sweat, matching the salty, rank film of perspiration that coated the rest of his sun-tanned skin. His glaucous eyes, rolling behind their closed lids, felt dry and sticky. He chewed drearily without parting his lips, ungluing his teeth and tongue from each other, cringing at the gross feel and taste of a saliva void mouth. And still, the thirst persisted.

At first he thought he could ignore it; outwit it perhaps, shove it away under the cool feathered pillow and lapse back into the placid, peaceful sleep from which his parched body had come. He rolled onto his side, away from the cruel white morning light streaming through the small porthole of a window, pulling the rough, scratchy Salvation Army-style covers up to his chin, tilting his head to wipe a drop of spittle from his cracked pink lips. Outside a bird chirped, and he curled reflexively into a small ball, as if the sound was a danger to his very existence.  _Water!_ his body prompted. He lay there, completely and utterly devoid of any sort of will and told himself to go back to sleep.

For several minutes, the young agent succeeded; he drifted uneasily back into the dream he'd been yanked from moments before, mouth dropping open slightly as he descended into unconsciousness. But then that infernal bird cawed once again, shattering Agent Clint Barton's last attempt at sleep, and driving his thirst to the forefront of his now fully awakened brain. His eyes snapped open reluctantly, and he found with extreme displeasure he was forced to blink through a sticky dry red curtain; his own desiccated blood. Barton groaned deep in his throat, a low guttural sound, clearing away the bitter mucus that stung and itched his esophagus with several swallows.  _Water,_ his body reminded, filling up his consciousness with the tantalizing image of a glass cup of ice water, bubbly condensation gathering on the clear, chilly surface, dripping down the rounded pane, and creating a ring of water on the fictitious table on which it sat. Barton swallowed once more, trying futilely to return to his slumber, but, after several unfruitful minutes, decided that his next course of action should be to get out of bed.

He threw his legs over the side, testing with his toes the temperature of the tile floor. It was cold, and the sensation of his warm skin touching it sent chills racing up his spine. He shivered involuntarily, twisting his neck this way and that, working out the kinks and tightened muscles as best he could. He was clad in only white underwear, which clung to his sticky, sweat-soaked skin, and he uncomfortably picked at them, not fond of the feeling of wet cotton adhering to his upper thighs. He placed his feet flat on the floor and leaned forward slightly, still balanced on the edge of the bed, sighing as the shift in his orientation caused his throbbing head to spin and his stomach to roll; this was the part of alcohol-induced bliss he was not fond of. As he righted himself the pain throughout his body only increased, but his thirst was far more persistent than even that. He grit his teeth and stood up, tottering a bit on unsteady, uncertain legs before pursuing his only goal; hydration.

Barton stumbled into the hallway joining his cell to the outside world, making his way to the bathroom. The cold of the tile floor caused discomfort to the soles of his feet, but he ignored all of this and pressed forward.

The bathroom Barton entered was otherwise unoccupied, a stroke of luck he chalked up to rising early. Or at least he assumed it was early; maybe he was late. He was too hungover to know the difference at this point. He turned on the first faucet he came to, allowing the cold, refreshing chill to wash over his wrists for several minutes before filling his hands with the god-given liquid and drinking. The sensation of relief gushed down his throat and he nearly sighed. He could almost feel his fever dissipating as he downed another handful of water greedily. As noisily as a feral dog, Barton refilled and gulped, refilled and gulped, until the ache in his stomach demanded that he stop; reluctantly, the agent turned the tap off after splashing a handful across his face. His fingers ran red and a zigzagging line on his forehead burned slightly as he passed his hands over his gruff, chiseled features. Grunting, Barton shook his hands wildly, spraying tiny droplets of blood across the pale white bathroom. The pain of his hangover was slowly being replaced by the pain of fatigue and stress; he could feel it in his strained leg muscles, his smarting biceps, and in the jagged scar criss-crossing his forehead. When Agent Barton looked up into the calcium stained mirror, obscured around the edges with mineral build up, he sighed wearily. The entire left side of his face was masked by blood from his head wound, and his blue eyes, usually alert and cautious, were dreary and dull. His bare chest glinted softly with sweat in the cool light of the bathroom, strong, tree-trunk like arms bulging and taunt. Vaguely, Agent Barton wondered about the details of what caused his injuries; then, when he couldn't remember, recalled that the reason for his drinking was to  _intentionally_ forget the events of the previous night. Apparently, they had been successful. The beginnings of a beard were present on his cheeks, and he raised a hand to touch his jaw line contemplatively, tilting his head. Agent Barton scratched the stumble, debating whether to let it grow or shave it off completely.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the hawk, finally come outta his nest."

Barton whirled toward the voice, raising his hands defensively. He was in no position to fight, but the action was reflexive, a learned habit that occurred whenever he was taken by surprise.

"Director Fury?" he asked quizzically, allowing his fists to drop slightly as he squinted into the door of the bathroom. "Sir?"

"Hello, Agent Barton," the tall, imposing man replied with faux pleasantness, walking into the humid lavatory, his usual expression of perpetual disdain plastered on his face. Barton let his hands fall away completely as he watched his boss, shoulders slightly sagged. "Have a good flight, Hawk?"

"Could have been better," the agent grumbled, throwing a hand toward the marred side of his face demonstratively. Director Fury nodded without interest, handing him a small red towel. Barton muttered his thanks and turned back to the sink, wetting the cloth gift and dabbing his face with it, watching Fury move in the mirror.

"You know, the wise thing to do when you return from a mission is to proceed straight to medical detail and then to my office for debriefing? Not drinking a supply of alcohol that could keep guys my size drunk for months."

"I'll take my chances, sir," Agent Barton muttered uncomfortably, squinting into the grimy mirror at the scar. It didn't look horrible, and it certainly wasn't going to leave a lasting mark. Damn. If he was going to endure a slash to his face deep enough to bleed, it should at least be permanent. Scars denoted character. Or at least women thought so.

"How soon can we get you back to work?"

Agent Barton turned quizzically, eying Director Fury skeptically.

"I thought SHIELD didn't like using me on missions. Sir. Apparently I'm unpredictable, flighty, and unruly. Besides, your monkeys in suits don't take very kindly to a… well, a master assassin accompanying them on their wild goose chases. They're not fond of my eyes. I, ah, see everything." Agent Barton's voice dripped with sarcasm and cruel humor.

"If that's true then you are exactly the man I need on this case," Director Fury responded coolly, single eye narrowing. Agent Barton stuttered, his interest piqued.

"Sir?"

"We're being faced with a potential national crisis, Agent Barton," Nick Fury said, exiting the bathroom with Clint in tow. He walked out of the prison-like dormitories, and Agent Barton had no choice but to follow, despite the fact he was dressed scantily in only white boxers. He ignored the looks ranging from puzzlement to intense surprise of passing SHIELD operatives, keeping his eyes trained on Director Fury's heels. To his intense displeasure, he was led straight through the central control center of operations, and was subjected to the gaping, open-mouthed stares of at least fifty other agents. As far as he could tell, Director Fury was intensely enjoying his embarrassment.

"Sir, if you don't mind, where are we going?" Agent Barton demanded as they exited the well populated room for the sanctity of an empty hallway.

"To the medical facility. We're going to start up right where you left off; we're gonna get you cleaned up, doctored up, and sobered up, and then we're gonna talk." Director Fury's tone was calm, verging on amused. Agent Barton groaned, tipping his head back slightly. SHIELD's method of 'soberizing' people involved a particularly painful shot that caused irritation and intense headaches. It wasn't something to look forward to.

Director Fury left Clint in the capable hands of several nurses who in no time at all had him looking tight and prim and as awake as a child at play. They pulled and prodded, snipped at his hair and shaved his beard, buttoned up a black suit and slapped on a pair of crisply folded pants, butterfly-bandaged the jagged line on his forehead, injected him full of fluids, massaged his sore muscles as if he was a Ken-doll, and then, when they had finished, pushed him into a room by himself with nothing but a steel table, laughably illuminated by a cold white fluorescent bulb. And Director Fury. He stood at the opposite end of the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression bored and indifferent. Agent Barton fidgeted in his new attire with upmost unease, pulling at the scratchy fabric and adjusting his tie morosely.

"Sir," he greeted, clearing his throat.

"Agent Barton," Director Fury nodded. "Take a seat," he offered, extending his hand to one of the steel chairs as he himself sat down. Agent Barton nodded and rigidly collapsed into his own stool, slumping against the backrest uncomfortably. Fury seemed to almost enjoy the young assassin's unrest, for a sly, nearly imperceptible smile flickered across his face. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here," Director Fury stated, fingering a manila folder resting in front of him. Barton nodded, waiting for him to continue. "As you know, you're one of SHIELD's top rated agents, even if you refuse to play by the rules."

"The rules don't play by me," Agent Barton said before he could stop himself, and, at Director Fury's displeased glance, he tacked on 'sir' for good measure. Director Fury grunted in acknowledgement.

"This particular case I have for you requires that exact mindset," Director Fury said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Agent Barton leaned forward, opening his eyes wider to indicate his interest. "If you're willing to take it."

"I suppose I could give it a go," Agent Barton mused. He was not used to SHIELD actually instructing him to break protocol, though it inevitably happened regardless.

"We've been tracking a master assassin much like you. At the current time, this person is responsible for thirty-seven known deaths, and possibly more that we haven't managed to trace. They are a master of crime; working outside of the law is their specialty. They have managed to evade any reconnaissance team we've dispatched thus far. None as of yet have returned more than snippets and glimpses of their location."

"He sounds like my kind of target," Agent Barton stated, cracking his knuckles.

"Not he.  _She_ ," Director Fury emphasized. This news caused Agent Barton to sit back a little bit, and a grin spread across his face as he laughed.

"She?" Agent Barton smirked. "A rouge female assassin is giving you trouble, sir? What did she do, bat her eyelashes and step on your agent's balls with stiletto heels?"

"Do you think this is funny?" Director Fury demanded, eyebrows coming together behind his black eye patch in a frown. Agent Barton's laughter vanished, but a thin smile remained on his pink lips. "Eight of the thirty-seven people she has murdered were of SHIELD's finest and were worth ten times the man you are. She robs and lies and kills because it's a job that she enjoys doing. She's an assassin, Agent Barton. She is  _the_  assassin. You may laugh and scoff about her gender, but I don't think you'll stand by those remarks when she puts a bullet through your head. Now, are we going to get on with this briefing or are you going to keep interrupting?" Agent Barton shook his head, still disbelieving. "Her name is Natasha Romanova, but she goes by the  _Black Widow_. She has a very specific skill set." Director Fury tossed the manila folder across the table to Agent Barton, who opened it with mild curiosity. Inside were several paper-clipped files. In front was a picture of a young woman, no older than he, with bright, curly red hair that fell to the middle of her back. She had a narrow, angular face with snow white skin, large green eyes with outrageously long lashes, and full red lips. Her expression was set in a determined, emotionless glower, devoid of anything at all but willpower. Agent Barton chuckled deep in his throat. As if he would really have difficulty with that pretty face. He'd woo her into following him anywhere, and maybe even have a little fun along the way. This detail wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"So what do you want me to do? Seduce her and when she's hopelessly infatuated with my dashing good looks, handcuff her to my arm and bring her back to the States?" he joked, mind trickling to the beginnings of a pleasant fantasy.

"If that's what it takes, yes," Director Fury responded. "But she's too clever for that. Do you know anything about entomology?"

"They study bugs, right?" Agent Barton asked, tossing the file on the table and returning his attention to his boss.

"A black widow spider is one of the most deadly arachnids on planet earth," Director Fury stated ominously, tilting his head. "Their bite contains enough venom to kill a grown man in seconds."

"So what're you saying, sir? That she's going to bite me? Hah, haha!" Agent Barton couldn't help but laugh at the notion, despite Director Fury's livid glare.

"I'm saying she's dangerous, Barton. Do  _not_ underestimate her. It's very easy to get in over your head with this target."

"With all due respect, I never get in over my head," Agent Barton responded, flexing his muscles as if to prove his toughness. Director Fury regarded him coolly and then shook his head, getting to his feet.

"How good is your Russian?" he demanded, splaying his dark brown fingers before him on the cold steel table.

"Lacking, sir, why?"

"Then study up," Director Fury suggested, pushing away from the table and striding to the door. "Because you're going to St. Petersburg."

* * *

**Hey, rainbows, Iori here! This is a fic I started years ago on fanfiction.net and have been anxious to get back to.  I hope you enjoy it and drop me a review to let me know what you think! ~Iori**

 


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter 2 **

**Unknown warehouse, Moscow, Russia**

**January 1st, 1999, 1:30am**

"Văduve, convoacă!"  _"Widows, gather!"_

The females that melted from the background were silent, walking lithely on the balls of their feet with ease, the cold barely worthy of note. Despite the imminent looming darkness pressing down on their shoulders, interrupted only by a small red-wax candle resting upon a splintered oak table, they evaded each other with great ease, winding cat-like to their respective places in the room, careful not to touch anything but the air they breathed. There were twenty of them, as varied in height, weight, and appearance as the colors of nature. There were redheads and blondes, brunettes and raven-haired beauties, short and stocky athletes, and tall, lanky businesswomen. Their features, too, were widely diverse; some had wide, open, kind azure eyes, while others had irises as black and soulless as night. Some wore energetic, interested expressions, while the majority appeared stoic and firm. Throughout the miscellaneous cluster of high cheekbones or heart-shaped faces, full lips or thin ones, curly or straight hair, one characteristic was the same; every female possessed a small tattoo on the back of her neck, centered slightly above her shoulder blades, of a small spider, its legs splayed out symmetrically on either side, with a dot of color in the shape of an hourglass upon its abdomen. Each color was different, red, purple, blue, even magenta pink, and each girl wore a stripe of eyeliner to match. They convened around the table obediently, and as if on cue tipped their heads in a small bow to the speaker. "Rise," he instructed, and the congregation dutifully obliged. Smoke carrying a more pungent odor than tobacco wafted around the room, creating wispy images in the low light; it filtered from a glowing cigarette with multi-colored leaves protruding from the illuminated tip.

"Greetings, my daughters," the man muttered in a raspy, airless voice. He coughed feebly, raising a hand covered in a leather glove, to where his mouth should have been; a large purple hood, shrouding his face in darkness, concealed his whole head. The grating coughs shook the gray beard protruding from under his covering, and his shoulders trembled with the force of his illness. Two caretakers, both clad in matching purple robes and stationed on either side of the old man, took his elbows gently, cooing soothing words into his cloak; both of their faces were covered as well, an attempt at mystery that was unsuccessful to the assembled women. They knew very well who hid behind the purple shrouds, and paid the guises little mind.

"My apologies, children!" the man exclaimed as his hacking ceased for the moment. "I grow weaker every day."

"We are here to serve, father!" the group responded in unison, raising their fists to their leader. Beneath the hood, the man smiled.

"It has been long since I last saw the light of day," he continued, clasping his hands. "Alas, I have not the strength. I am scarcely strong enough to stand before you today. So tell me, daughters; how goes your search for the lobelia seed?"

Uncomfortably, the assembled women glanced between one another, and then, when the majority of attention turned to a tall, gangling blonde, she cleared her throat and stepped forward. The hooded figure at the head of the table flicked his head toward her; she faltered slightly, but found the courage to continue.

"Not well, my lord," she sighed, voice like a dragonfly flitting on the breeze. "We've had… difficulties…" The tension in the room was palpable, and the man hissed beneath his cloak. "But, we did manage to cultivate more petals, sir!" the blonde woman explained. "Here, my lord!" she cried. "Widows, show our father what we've gathered!" Edgily, following the blonde's lead, the other ladies began pulling vibrantly colored flowers from pockets and tossing them onto the table, until it was a beautiful array of rainbow petals. "See what we've collected for you, sir?" the blonde whimpered, holding her hands wide, as if to demonstrate the magnitude of the gift.

"Pah!" the hooded man bellowed, slamming a fist on the table. The draping sleeve that had previously concealed his hand fell away, revealing a deathly skeletal shape, more dead than alive. Veins, coursing with sickly greenish-blue liquid, popped out against the flaky gray skin, and the blonde recoiled at the sight. "These petals are meaningless if I do not obtain the seed!" The hand snaked away from the table, its drapes waterfalling over it once again. "You have failed me again, Widows." A silence more anxious than the pitch darkness was now weighing down upon the cult, sucking breath from the mouths of the assembled women and into the lungs of the hooded figure at the head of the table. All eyes were cast downward, nervous energy crackling through the air itself. "You may ask of course, why must we obey your orders and scurry through Russia in search of the lobelia. It is mightily unfair, isn't it, that I make you run such errands for me. After all you are not maids, oh no. You were trained for something more." No one dared make a sound. The man rose to his feet, splaying his long, eerie fingers out on the table before him. The blonde Widow looked up through her heavily made-up eyelashes, and almost thought she could see the rough outlines of a face. Certainly, those twinkling bits of light were eyes? She looked down as they turned toward her, and a peculiar feeling of unease crept through her spine. "I will tell you why!" The man slammed his palms down on the table, causing several of the blossoms to tumble to the floor.

"I  _made_  you!" he cried, harsh voice gravelly and menacing. "I gave you life! I saved you from pointless years of rotting in brothels and prisons!" Beads of spittle flew from beneath the hood and landed on the table. The figure straightened slightly, breathing hard. "I was the one who convinced Gorbachev to consider the program in the first place, so listen well, you ungrateful wenches! You will find me the lobelia seed, and you will do so within the month! I don't care how far you must travel, or what trials you must overcome to succeed. Now go! Time is wasting!"

"Yes, Drakov!" the Widows chorused, extending their fists into the air in salute.

"I gave you life, Widows…" Drakov growled, collapsing backward into his chair, gasping for breath. "And I can take it away just as easily!"

The women disbanded, slipping silently back into the night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Ana, Galina," the hooded man said once all of the women had gone, voice lapsing back into a feeble whine. "Were all Widows accounted for?"

"All but Romanova," came the gentle reply from Galina, one of Drakov's hooded caretakers. The elderly gentleman pursed his lips as his assistants helped him to his feet. His quick outburst of anger had sapped much of his strength; his breath now came with much stress, as if the air was as thick like honey. With help from the two women at his side, he made his way through the warehouse and up a sweeping staircase toward his bedroom.

"My medicine!" he cried as they allowed him to flop backward against a great expanse of pillows. The sound of a lighter igniting was heard, and the putrid scent of burning lobelia ptelas filled the air. Ana held a glowing joint before him and Drakov seized it greedily, bringing it to his chapped lips and inhaling. He sighed heavily as the flower's healing properties worked their magic; the trembling in his hands slowed, and breathing became easier. He tilted his shrouded head back, allowing smoke to filter out of his mouth toward the ceiling as he thought. "Ana, go downstairs and clean up the lobelia petals the Widows left. Galina, summon Romanova."

"Are you sure that's wise, my liege?" came Galina's tentative, unsure voice. Drakov immediately began pounding his free hand against the mattress, kicking his legs wildly.

"Galina, damn you!" he shrieked. "I want the Black Widow  _now_!"

"Yes sir, right away, sir!" Galina squealed, hastening from the room as fast as she could manage whilst bowing until the tip of her hood brushed the ground. "I'll go get her!" The woman exited the room, pulling the door closed in her wake. Drakov growled deep in his throat and sank back into the mountain of pillows, struggling to relax. He drew deeply on his special cigarette, finding that it calmed his aggravated nerves.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" asked a cool, indifferent voice moments later. Drakov's head snapped up, and a sneer crossed his face.

"Natalia," he spat excitedly. "The infamous Black Widow. How superior you are to your fellow sisters. Any one of them I would have detected in an instant. But you are far too sharp to leave loose ends or footprints."

"You know me well, Drakov. I am flattered." Although Drakov couldn't see beyond his drooping hood, he heard Romanova moving in the room, the key turn in the lock, and waited until she sat at the foot of the bed before he responded.

"You are too keen for flattery," he hissed, statement obscured by rough coughs. Quickly, he took a deep breath from the lobelia joint. "Praise has never compromised you in the past."

"Except that which has come from you, father," she agreed. A steely silence persisted, broken only by the shuffling of Ana and Galina downstairs.

"I assume that you heard the contents of our meeting?" Drakov said presently.

"Yes. Your words were quite… sinister," Romanova replied, pushing her vibrant red curls behind her ear. "Had Anastasia quaking in her boots." Drakov chuckled quietly.

"Indeed," he agreed. "And what of you, my pride? My spider queen? My deadliest assassin? Were you… 'quaking in your boots?'" Drakov rolled the unfamiliar English saying around his tongue uncomfortably.

"Hardly!" Romanova scoffed, getting to her feet. "I am not petrified of you as the others are." Drakov grimaced as she proceeded to examine the small bedroom. He was unsure if her indifference was a good quality or not.

"Then what are you?" he growled, extinguishing his cigarette on the glass of the bedside table. He tipped his head backward slightly so that he could see her whereabouts. His eyebrows knit into a frown as he found the young, beautiful agent standing before his safe removing a substantial amount of Russian dollars. She counted the total carefully, thought for a moment, then closed the iron door.

"A Widow," she answered, turning to face Drakov indifferently. "No more, no less." He sniffed.

"Where are you going?"

"St Petersburg. They have a beautiful botanical garden there that I've been wanting to tour for a good while." Drakov smiled darkly beneath his hood.

"Excellent!" he crooned, heart racing in excitement. If anyone had a chance to acquire the lobelia seed, the rarest pod on the planet, if was Natalia. "Let Galina back in before you leave," Drakov ordered.

"As you wish," Romanova stated, and Drakov sighed as the lock clicked open once more.

"I will look forward to your return," he growled, sudden exhaustion overwhelming his sick body. But the Black Widow was already gone, disappearing into the night as silently as the predator she was named for.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Note - This is set 13 years before the Avengers, so obviously the characters are going to be younger. I am basing their descriptions off of younger photos of the actors who played them. I would highly suggest looking up a young picture of Jeremy Renner, for your own personal gain ( ;) ) and so that you know what the character of young Hawkeye looks like. 
> 
> Iori~

**Chapter 3**

**Kuznechny Market, St. Petersburg, Russia**

**January 20** **th** **, 1999. 11:00am**

The first thing Agent Barton had noticed upon his arrival in Russia was that everything was big. Nothing was ever halfway done; the buildings were all incredible, giant and looming, portions at meals were nearly unmanageable even for a man Barton's size. The women were tall and stocky, carrying broad shoulders, wide forearms, and a heavy chest, and the Russian men forced Barton to reevaluate his own strength. The bed in the Renaissance Hotel in which Fury had ordered him a room was king-size with great fluffy pillows that all but swallowed up Barton's head when he had lain down the previous night to rest. He'd discovered just how lacking his Russian was during the check-in process; what a nightmare that had been. Fortunately, the pretty blonde receptionist had been fluent in English, else Barton would have been still standing at that counter making a fool of himself. He had retired early, exhausted after the horribly lengthy flight, and found himself asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress. He had awoken with a cramped neck and a groaning stomach, struggled through a tough, gritty breakfast of chewy bacon and tasteless scrambled eggs, and then proceeded into the streets, aimlessly wandering through the winding city, half-acknowledging the impressive sites, the bizarre giant-people, and observing the general atmosphere, trying to blend in. He disliked being this close to the ground, but Director Fury had asked him to keep a low profile; jumping across the rooftops hardly seemed to correlate with that instruction.

Barton now found himself at the gates of an enormous, bustling, hectic grocery market, brimming with people and every type of fruit, vegetable, meat, toy, or object imaginable. It was filled with every color of the rainbow; crimson tomatoes, golden peppers, emerald cucumbers and pickles, magenta squash, a deep purple robe draped across the shoulders of a potential buyer, salmon colored slabs of chicken, and some sort of orange cream rotating slowly in a large black kettle. Children ran to and fro, laughing and crying out in hastily spoken Russian, chasing each other and small animals while their parents trailed behind, haggling with street vendors, trying on clothes, sampling the fruits, and slipping bits of merchandise beneath their goose-down parkas when they believed no one was looking. Everything was fresh; Barton could tell by the overpowering aroma of ripeness, almost as if the wares had been plucked from the mother-vine only moments before. The scents were so sweet and lovely they almost felt out of reach, and they beckoned to Barton to come closer, to smell them more, that in order to understand them completely he needed to come inside. He didn't resist; it would have been impossible to dismiss them idly and continue on his way. Clint Barton looked around, taking a quick, surveillance glance around the area, and then ducked under a large, wrought iron sign reading " Kuznechny."

Inside the spectacle was even more awesome; the market ran for miles, painting the broken cobblestone street with hundreds of hues and tones of everyday articles, ranging from food to tools, and even extended into the back alleyways where the more licentious items were being procured. Babushkas shuffled in these shadowy halls, hocking small packages of mushrooms and other bizarre organic herbs of an intoxicating nature. The police passed without notice; however, nothing escaped the Hawk's careful gaze.

He wandered aimlessly for a long while, silent as he watched the boisterous interactions of Russian people, taking in the intriguing, tempting scents and the enticing expanse of color, and his mind began to drift away. He considered the previous years of his life idly; to his displeasure and mild disconcertion, his memories of his past were incredibly cloudy and uncertain.

He had not been working as an agent for SHIELD long, only a year or so. But in that amount of time, he had transitioned from a world-class criminal to one of its most highly skilled officers, a vicious, immoral eighteen-year old with a bloodlust to rival his previous gusto. He'd grown careless on one of his forays, and was captured by the United States government, tortured brutally, and eventually sentenced to death row. SHIELD, a budding quarter of the administration, had intervened and recruited him, literally pulling him from the jaws of death. They had given him a chance, a shot to change his ways, and he had taken it. He'd needed directions and orders to control his manic energy; SHIELD had provided just that solution. They told him what to do and when, gave him deadlines and incentives to meet; he scarcely had room to think for himself at all. It was easier that way. Better. Better than before.

"Excuse me, sir, but if you're not going to walk, please move aside – you're blocking my way."

Agent Barton turned at the sound of a smooth, heavy feminine voice, jumping out of his muddled, unclear thoughts with a start. It wasn't easy to sneak up on him; however, the difficult task of retrieving his memories – a goal he'd been pursuing for a long while – often pulled a cloud over his mind, causing him to lose focus. He'd repressed such episodes for several months, but recently they had been occurring with increasing frequency. Each time, his past became a little bit clearer. He turned his attention now to the young woman who was speaking to him. She appeared to be a couple years younger than him, was clad in a milky beige wool dress with blue satin trim. Over a voluptuous nest of thick orange curls rested a matching crème colored hat, into which her hair was tucked. A lacy white veil covered her face, shadowing every feature but pale narrow cheeks. She was built thinly, but possessed substantial curves around her hips and chest. But all of this was trumped by the flawless English that flowed from her painted red lips. The intense relief that washed over Agent Barton had rarely been paralleled in any of his previous missions. He tilted his head to the side before answering.

"Sorry, ma'am. Got distracted," he apologized, stepping out of the main walkway toward a cart filled with foul smelling salted fish.

"Thank you," the redhead said crisply and then continued on her way. Agent Barton's eyes followed, stomach turning slightly as he watched her sashaying figure move off. Disregarding the twinges in his gut regarding the cool woman, he slipped his hands into his pockets and followed her, keen gray eyes never leaving the back of her head. The pair wound for several long, interesting minutes toward the rear of the Kuznechny market, Agent Barton surprised at the dexterity and ease with which the woman, seemingly American, moved through the bustling Russian crowd. They passed monstrous orange and green gourds, vibrantly yellow ears of corn, bright red filets of salmon, and after going by an intoxicatingly sweet stand of cinnamon-roasted almonds, came to a halt beside a small fruit stand, where the aroma of freshly picked strawberries wafted over the body odor of hundreds of people from six feet away. The woman reached out with long, delicate fingers and lifted a small parcel of the crimson fruits from the cart, bringing them close to her face. Agent Barton assumed that she inhaled, judging by the rise and fall of her chest, which he had shamefully found his eyes drawn to when her profile had been presented to him. He watched her pass the vendor several coins before moving off, once again with Agent Barton in pursuit. Several times as they walked she glanced over her shoulder, saw the man still following her, and picked up the pace. Agent Barton, feigning the bird of prey that his pseudonym reflected, swooped closer, gaining distance on the girl until they were merely two meters away from each other, at which point the girl whirled around, stopping in middle of the road defiantly.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded, voice rising in octave. Agent Barton smiled politely.

"You speak English good, and you're the only one I've met here who can. I speak Russian bad. It was nice to hear my mother tongue," he replied, not entirely a falsehood. The woman tilted her head quizzically, still perturbed.

"You don't speak English  ** _well_** , either," she countered. "And as to your Russian, I can only assume that you speak it  _badly_."

"Right," was the only word he could muster.

"Why are you following me?" the woman reiterated, and Barton smoothed his wispy brown hair casually before answering.

"I told you. You speak English, I speak no Russian. We're in Russia, and it's nice to hear something I can understand."

"Why did you come to Russia if you cannot speak the language?" 

"I've always wanted to see the Winter Palace. My family emigrated from Russia. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about." Even to the Agent, his story seemed fake and jumbled; he didn't believe himself, but, like she had been throughout their entire encounter, the woman's face remained in a stern frown.

"What does that have to do with following a young woman through a produce market?" she demanded. Agent Barton smiled slightly.

"Nothing," he stated, and for the first time, the woman's face gained an expression; she glowered even darker.

"Then why are you here?" she asked for the third time. "There are plenty of English-speaking tour guides you can hire that will give you sex after your visit to the Palace is over. Why are you chasing me?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd go to lunch with me," Agent Barton interjected, scratching his head. This caused the woman to falter. He tipped his head toward her slightly, struggling to see her face. "My treat."

"Where and when?" she asked.

"Your choice. I don't know anything about this place." She looked down at her hands, still holding the packet of strawberries. Agent Barton rocked on his heels patiently, waiting for her response.

"Meet me at the Korovabar Bar tomorrow at one o'clock."

"Great," Agent Barton grinned. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, a green flash of an emerald iris. The glance passed all too quickly for Clint. But not too fast for Hawkeye. And she knew it. "Would you might writing that down? My Russian is not good. An address would also be nice." His voice now contained an edge, and the woman's shoulders were rigidly set.

"Of course," she agreed. "Please hold these." She passed the carton of red strawberries to the agent and opened a small handbag, retrieving a pen and small piece of paper, upon which she hastily scrawled the name of the restaurant and its address.

"Thank you," they told each other in unison, re-exchanging their items.

"Tomorrow, then," Agent Barton stated cautiously.

"Yes… Tomorrow," she echoed, shuffling her feet. Several moments of awkward silence persisted, and then Agent Barton reached for her hand and took it, pulling her long, pale fingers to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss on the second knuckle of her middle finger, but never did the woman look up.

They both turned on their heels and parted. Agent Barton looked down at the note the girl had given to him and jumped, startled. A black spider christened with a small crimson hourglass was creeping across the parchment toward his wrist; Agent Barton had no qualms with the arachnid family, but had no interest in a venomous one crawling over his shooting hand. He shook his hand violently, throwing the small creature away. He quickly shoved the small note into his pocket and turned his head over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the retreating form of the woman he'd just asked out to lunch. His vision zeroed in on her retreating form, and the world seemed to slow, narrowing in on just this one target. He watched her turn as if in slow motion, casting her emerald gaze over her shoulder toward him. And in that moment he was certain. She was Natasha Romanova, the one he'd been sent to this godforsaken country to acquire. Damn she was beautiful, even more so in person than in photo. He turned his body completely and, eyes never leaving his target, he pushed through the oncoming crowd, gaining speed; this was going to be easier than he thought.

All at once, the woman ripped her outer garments off to reveal a skin-tight black catsuit adorned with an uncountable number of weapons, ranging from a pocketknife-sized blade to a shotgun strapped across her back. People squealed and parted as Romanova drew a pistol from its halter on her belt and aimed it toward Agent Barton's head. He ducked away before the explosion rocked the air around them, avoiding her well-placed attempt by several feet. Hastily, he ripped his own revolver from a concealed pocket on his vest and, diving behind a rickety wooden cart, aimed it toward Romanova's legs, unloading several rounds in the direction of her feet. The Black Widow flipped out of the way, springing onto the cart where Agent Barton hid, and he found himself face-to-face with the barrel of her small weapon. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he threw all of his weight into the cart and it tipped, throwing Romanova into the street under a gooey, sweet-smelling mound of peaches. She exploded from the mess and broke into a run, winding through the mass of indifferent Russians without so much as a backward glance. Agent Barton grinned, reaching into a cargo pocket on his baggy black pants, hands clasping around his beloved weapon of choice – his bow. He drew it, activating it with a single touch. The limbs snapped out, and with great speed and finesse he wound the leather cord tightly into its track. It twanged healthily when he released it, and a feeling of giddy excitement spread over his arms. He shed his outer coat, revealing powerful, taunt biceps and ripped, muscular shoulders. A full quiver of arrows hung on his back. He was Hawkeye again, clad in a deep purple uniform, and as his fantastic vision located Romanova, several meters away by now, he slipped on his characteristic polarized glasses and pursued.


End file.
